"Sure, Dexter." Erskine caught the blonde's hand and caressed it the way a mother would of her petulant child's hand. "Whatever you say. You were always the husband."

What he wanted to do was hug the man, if only briefly, because where Dex's behaviour went straight over the heads of anyone who didn't know him, Erskine saw right through it. He felt right through it, what with his arm being used as a smothering pillow. And while a part of Erskine was sympathetic - while most of him was sympathetic - Dex really needed to be over it. Rover's death wasn't his fault, it had been over a century, and if Dex didn't move past the whole thing very soon, he was going to miserable himself to death. Honestly, if Rover himself could descend from the heavens to knock some sense into Dexter, he'd do it - and he wouldn't pussyfoot around the words, either.

In lieu of a full hug in front of practical strangers, which would have been awkward in this position anyway, Erskine squeezed Dex's hand in a quick comforting acknowledgment before he continued the massage.

"I thought Rover did agree to it," said Skulduggery. "He told me once that he did."